


home (just a room full of my safest sounds)

by tcnyrhcdey (stcrkson)



Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017)
Genre: 5+1 Things, :), Gen, Heavy Angst, Hurt No Comfort, Major character death - Freeform, Minor Character Death, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Suicide, Suicide Attempt, This One Is Dark, not as dark as the next tho, suicide ideation, triggering content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-18
Updated: 2018-11-18
Packaged: 2019-08-25 14:30:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,116
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16662651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stcrkson/pseuds/tcnyrhcdey
Summary: peter is used to talking people down.(5 times peter witnessed a suicide +1 time)





	home (just a room full of my safest sounds)

**Author's Note:**

> I don't think ive stressed this enough so let me say this again: This is Very Triggering. It's got suicide galore - blood, guns and pills - so please please please stay safe

tw: suicidal ideation, suicide attempts, abusive families

 

i.

Peter doesn’t remember, but he saved his mother’s life. The doctor said it was mild postpartum depression - stay on the meds and you’ll be fine.

 

It was fine. Then it wasn’t.

 

She had cried herself to sleep for five nights in a row, before waking up two hours later. Her moods were swinging wildly, angry to sad and back again at the drop of a hat. It was just like she was pregnant all over again, but this time there was nothing to show for it. Her husband had taken on all her duties, as well as working enough to keep them in their own house.

 

He was amazing and he didn’t deserve a wastrel like her.

 

Her hands twitched as she stared at the sleeping pills in her drawer. All it would take was just a handful of downers and it would be over. She picked up the bottle, her hand knocking the clock on the edge of the desk. It read 2:14, Valentine’s Day. Like a cliche couple, her and her husband got together in 11th grade on Valentine’s Day. The story normally brought her happiness, but tonight only brought sorrow. The bottle began to rattle as her hands changed from twitching to full on trembling.

 

The bedroom door creaked open.

 

Peter _\- her son, shining star -_ stared at her, looking wet around the eyes. Almost without thinking, she dropped the pill bottle and made her way to him, joints creaking all the way. She lifted him in her arms, holding him as he began sobbing in earnest. She held him through it listening as his sobs petered out into sniffles that evened into soft puffs off breath against her collarbone. He had fallen asleep on her. She laid him in his bed, brushing his hair back like she used to. She rose eventually, not exactly better, but not worse either. She climbed back into her bed, putting the pills back into the drawer without a second glance.

 

_It didn’t really matter now did it though, because mother dearest died two days later in a plane crash, and you can’t remember her name or her voice._

 

ii.

Peter had never handled death well, freezing like a deer in the headlights at the mere mention of the word. His body remembered what his mind refused to recall.

 

It just so happened that - of all things -  he had to use the bathroom.

 

It was the shit bathroom door on the ‘Connections’ that was really just the old gifted hallway that creaked whenever it opened. A long wheeze that almost buried the swearing and the shuffling backwards Aaron made. It was just bad luck that Peter could see the red stained football jersey that read _Morales_ in large block letters.

 

“Aaron?” Peter froze, selfishly hoping that he wouldn’t get a response, that no one was in there and he was just hearing things.

 

“Parker? You might wanna go to the bathroom on the other hall.” The words were faint, slurring together with exhaustion, _blood loss_. It was enough to nudge Peter into motion, looking into the stall Aaron had pushed himself into.

 

Peter hated what he saw.

 

Aaron was mostly pushed up against the toilet, head held up by the seat. His jacket was off, jersey laid across his lap, under his sluggishly bleeding arms. His face was lax, eyes barely open but red, and tear tracks covering much of the rest. The blood against his dark skin was almost as shocking a contrast as if it had been his own. Bright red against dark tan. It was morbidly fascinating and Peter was crying.

 

Peter reached out to grab his shoulder, sinking down to the floor. He pulled Aaron against his chest, his body trembling and fear drying up any words in his throat.

 

“Let’s go to the nurse.” His voice sounded scraped raw, terrified.

 

“Don’t wanna, let me go in peace.” Aaron was sounding less and less coherent, and a fog was descending over his eyes like a veil.

 

Peter managed to get his arms under Aaron’s armpits, lifting ~~_\- lift with your knees, not with your back -_ ~~ him into a standing position, taking on all of his weight. The extra weight didn’t quite break through the determination of _fix him_.

 

He pushed through the door into the hallway, a trail of blood following him. His khakis even had large blotches on them. He pushed through anyways. He knocked on the first classroom door he found, looking like a horror movie star.  

 

“Fuck you, they’ll Baker Act me.” _The fact finding part of Peter said that the Baker Act was from from Florida. That part was small and didn’t really handle stress well._

 

“Call 911.”

 

Within the space of ten minutes, the hallway was full, teachers and paramedics everywhere, and students being herded to the gym to avoid any ‘accidents’. _Peter knew accidents just meant any pictures of a kid with slit wrists in a football jersey getting out and in the news._ Peter cradled Aaron on his side, talking him through everything that was happening, even when he was no longer coherent enough to hear him.

 

Aaron’s eyes opened wide as he was strapped down to a gurney and lifted up, bright light fanning around him.

 

“Peter, protect my brother, please.”

 

“I promise.”

 

Aaron Morales died in transit.

 

Peter Parker sat with his mother at his funeral. He carefully didn’t ask about where his father was.  

 

iii.

Peter was trembling with rage as he stared up at the man in front of him. Despite never speaking a word to him, Peter could pick his face out of a line up, easy - he’d haunted his nightmares for the past three weeks.

 

This was the man that killed Uncle Ben.

 

Peter wasn’t partial to being dragged into an alley with the one who killed his only father figure, and especially not while Aunt May was worried at home, since this was the first time he was allowed out of her sight since Ben was pronounced dead. _God, he hated knowing that his Uncle was dead and nothing he could do would bring him back._  

 

“I need a favor.” The man's voice sounded like the jagged pieces of Peter’s heart.

 

“What makes you think I owe you one?” Peter almost didn’t recognize his own voice, it sounded faint, like the gaping hole left in him when Uncle Ben left had sucked away all of his determination, his voice.

 

“Oh no, you don’t owe me shit, but I feel like this will help you.” He pulled a gun out from the small of his back, barrel pointed at himself, and pushed it into Peter’s hand.

 

“Sir, what are you-” _Reflexive politeness in the face of danger does not make you weak. His therapist said a lot of things that made no sense._

 

“Closure.”

 

“I don’t want-” Peter’s voice rose, panic rising and choking him.

 

The gun went off and Peter screamed. Someone called 911. A man in a yellow suit wrapped him in a shock blanket. Aunt May looked hurt. Peter thought hurt was a weird word - you hurt, who hurts? - intransitives and grammar and other things that didn’t matter.

 

His doctor referred him to a trauma intensive therapist. Peter could never actively recall why.

  
iv.

Peter’s spider sense was very weird, tingling sometimes and the buzzing the next. He knew intrinsically that the tingling meant that danger was near and he needed to move. He couldn’t understand the buzzing, though. It came and went with the tides, sometimes quiet, and sometimes insistent and loud and _hurting_.

 

It was on patrol that Peter realized why it hurt.

 

The scene was horrific, blood all across the floors, especially in one corner of the kitchen. The body was sprawled on the floor, a neat hole in the side of her head and for a split second, Peter sees Aunt May. Then the moment is gone and he’s picking up the landline and dialling 911.

 

He wanders into the kitchen, pulling his mask off and seeing the only clean thing in the room - a cake container and a note.

 

_To my only friend,_

_When you’re reading this, I will already be dead._

_My place will probably look quite messy…._

_I’m sorry I couldn’t be more patient in waiting for you._

_But that doesn’t matter now._

_What matters is that you’re here. Against all odds, you’re here._

_I’m aware that this may seem like a bad ending to my story,_

_but you’re here._

_You’re here, and I have baked another cake for you. I’m not sure how fresh it will be when you find this, as for all I know you never will, but I hope you enjoy it anyway._

_I wish you the best of luck._

**_Charlotte_ **

 

Peter silently placed the note down, trembling with tension, and escaped out the window.

 

He threw up when he found the viscera that had sloughed off the wall in his suit.

 

_It hurts because he’s failing his job - protecting the innocent._

  
v.

Peter loved wandering the city at night. He loves it less so when he has a pounding headache. He thinks he can hate it when he has a pounding headache and he can't tell if his senses are tingling or buzzing but he knows it's like his _skin getting flayed off_.

 

“Chill, Parker. It’s never as bad as you make it.” His voice sounded bitter and tired, slightly slurred.

 

“Oye chico! Little Parker, come here.” Peter rolled his eyes, hearing Santiago call his name.

 

“Hey, Navi.”

 

“I have no idea what you’re talking about. Look, you see that man over there by the edge of the bridge? See if you can’t get him down from there, I don’t wanna see another dead body wash up behind me for another three years.” Peter nodded, steeling himself before trekking up the bridge.

 

He didn’t know what he expected to see up there, but it wasn’t Tony Stark. It especially wasn’t Tony Stark looking like the only thing holding him up was the railing on the bridge. He reached out, almost on instinct, sure his senses were lying. But then he grabbed an arm, radiating warmth and sobbed.

 

Except it wasn’t him, it was Tony Stark sobbing, who was stumbling back from the ledge like a drunkard.

 

“Hey, are you alright? Well, of course not, but are you physically okay?” Peter let his natural ability of talking fill the silence _\- Tony’s sobs had diminished into hurt whines that tugged sharply on Peter’s heartstrings -_ as he tried to make sure there were no serious injuries on the man. He gently led down off the bridge, talking about something random he had learned in human anatomy class.

 

“It’s called adipose tissue.”

 

“Pardon?”

 

“Fat is adipose tissue, you said epithelial.” Peter’s eyes widened.

 

“No wonder I'm failing that class.” Tony let out a frail huff of laughter. Peter continued on, jumping from tangent to tangent with little rhyme or reason. He had managed to convince Tony to try the jalapeño poppers Santiago usually had. By the time Tony excused himself, his face was brighter and his eyes were less haunted.

 

“You did good, Little Parker.” Peter simply hummed in response before walking home, and Santiago frowned, slightly worried.

 

+1

 

Peter had a lot of bottles of sleeping pills. They were all locked in a safe under his bed, he couldn’t risk Miles finding them. He would ask too many questions, and Peter didn’t think he had the ability to answer them.

 

~~_His real fear was one of the Avengers finding them - he understood Aaron’s fear of being Baker Acted now._ ~~

 

He’d missed his therapist twice this week and he was beginning to think she was worried, maybe he could have Miles send her a gift basket. He’d do it himself but he couldn’t get out of bed. He’d been sleeping all week and yet he was still tired. ~~_Tired and worthless and a goddamned slut._ ~~

 

He didn’t want to think about that right now. He’d rather sleep. It would be easy to just sleep. Sleep and not wake up. All it would take was two bottles, maybe three. He laughed slightly - hysterical - when he was younger he always wanted to be just like Aaron. He guessed now he was succeeding.

 

Miles found him, three bottles in an absolutely out of his mind. He called 911 and then Aunt May, deadly calm. It wasn’t until he locked himself in his room of the compound that he began crying.

 

_Peter Parker was pronounced dead in transit to Metro General on June 6th...._

 

_Tony Stark was pronounced dead in the Avengers Compound on June 11th._

**Author's Note:**

> [hmu on tumblr](https://cptdcnvers.tumblr.com)


End file.
